I took a shovel with me into the valley of death and I was amused. There upon the crooked tree perched a birdy blue who said, “Forget the rest, and join me for tea, in my nest, and you can see what else I have in hatches, boxes, barrels, and blankets, gold daggers, and jewels, and shimmering trinkets.”
I climbed my way, shovel in hand, up the crooked tree in the valley of death, and I said to myself, “This is a long way to climb without a green jay to mellow the old mind,” and I lit and climbed by branch and by vine. At the very top in the highest crook, there sat blue bird who coughed and shook.
“What took you so long?” The blue bird said, and I did not reply, but shook my head. “Bah, baboons, well come inside, sit, drink tea, enjoy the sky.” Bright and blue it was this day, like the blue bird in who’s home did I lay.
“Now listen to this, it’s a story to hear,” the blue bird said and he started to tear, as long went his tale, I snuck from a shelf, a bottle of wine, to share with myself. “When I was a young bird, pink and still squaking, long before I had taken up talking, my brothers and sisters were swallowed by a snake, but I was coughed up, I just didn’t take.”
The blue bird tittered, and coughed, then started to tune, an old banjo he plucked from his darkened bedroom. He started to sing an old drinking tune, while I sipped on his tea, but I dozed off too soon.
“What a mess you have left!” I awoke with a start, and a blue bird holding a sword to my heart. “Why you’ve spilt all my wine on my pristine sheets, and puked on the bed, and ate all my treats.”
“But blue bird,” I said, ready to protest,” but enough was enough, he kicked me out from his nest.